Sophie fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’ll try to find a job soon.”
Kirsten looked startled and immediately began apologizing. “Oh, no, Sophie. I’m not trying to pressure you to give me money for the rent. I …” She stumbled over her words. “Listen to me, going on and on about myself, complaining about the lousy pay of being a therapist …” She was about to complete her sentence with, when you’re not even allowed to be a therapist anymore, but thought better of it. Instead, she tried to redirect the conversation. “Um, how was your day? How was your meeting with your parole officer?”
Still wringing her hands, Sophie replied, “It was awful. I hated it … I just want to be done with all of this, and I have a whole year of parole left. He told me I had to get a job in the next two weeks or I’m going back inside.”
“That sounds scary. Did you put in some applications today?”
Sophie nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, at the hospital.”
After waiting expectantly a few moments, Kirsten prodded, “And? Where else?”
“That’s it. Just the hospital.”
“Sophie! You have to apply to more places than one if you want to find a job.”
“I know, but … but what’s the point? They’re not going to hire a felon, anyway.”
Kirsten waited a few moments before quietly offering, “If you don’t find anything, you could always call your dad. He’s loaded—maybe you could work for him.”
Sophie snapped her gaze upward. “No, I cannot! I don’t want anything to do with his construction business, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me, especially after what happened, um, what happened,” she gulped, her next words barely above a whisper, “… what happened to my mom.”
Kirsten’s eyes widened. “That is ludicrous! Your dad can’t possibly blame you for your mother’s death!”
“He can, and he does. You saw him. You saw how he was at the funeral. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”
Sophie could not prevent her consciousness from flooding with the memory of her mother’s grave on a cold, rainy day last December. Icy winds and pelting raindrops had buffeted the group surrounding the gravesite of Laura Taylor. Sophie’s mother had succumbed quickly following a heart attack, and despite the inclement weather, the gravesite had been packed with her father’s work colleagues. After one brief, accusatory glance toward his daughter, Will Taylor had avoided all eye contact.
The overwhelming grief of losing her mother, the disdainful brush-off by her father, and the sheets of rain pouring over her as tears trailed down her face had seemed too much to bear in that moment. But the fact that she’d been handcuffed, dressed in her thin prison uniform while shivering in the wind, had only made it worse.
Fellow prisoners told her she was lucky the DOC had allowed her to attend her mother’s funeral. She certainly had not felt lucky. She would never forget the shame of that day.
Kirsten’s blue eyes filled with concern as she watched her friend withdraw into a cocoon of despair. Seeing Sophie handcuffed like a common criminal, flanked by two police officers as if she were some danger to society, had been one of the most bizarre experiences of Kirsten’s life. At the reception after the funeral, there had been whispers that Laura’s heart attack was brought on by the stress of watching her only child go to prison. This had horrified Kirsten.
Clearing her throat nervously, Kirsten attempted a smile. “Hey, roomie, I’ll make you a deal. For every job you apply for, I promise to spend one hour on my dissertation.”
Sophie glanced up, grateful for Kirsten’s transparent attempt to cheer her up. She took a deep breath and felt a slight dissipation of her crushing guilt. “Two hours,” she countered, a small grin spreading across her face.
“One job application for two hours of dissertation time? Hmm …” Kirsten stroked her chin, considering the negotiation. “You drive a tough bargain. Okay, it’s a deal.”
They reached forward to shake hands, smirking.
Eyeing her friend’s lean frame, Kirsten asked, “Did you eat any breakfast today?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Sorry, I just worry about you. You’re so skinny now.”
“The prison diet works wonders. Nobody wants to eat that swill.”
“Well, now that you’re residing chez Kirsten, there’s no excuse not to eat. C’mon, let’s make some lunch.”
Kirsten hopped up and headed into the small kitchen with Sophie following. They began cooking some noodles and making a salad. In the midst of chopping tomatoes, Kirsten glanced at her roommate.
“So, your parole officer’s a guy. Is he cute?”
Sophie scoffed, “He’s like sixty years old, Kir!”
Laughing, she wiped her hands on a towel and set a couple of plates on the table. “Okay, okay. We do need to find you a man, though. You’ve had a long drought since him.”
With a far-off look, Sophie drifted back to the deep-blue eyes that had once stared into her own, eyes that had been at one moment wounded and vulnerable, then suddenly suspicious and angry. She’d thought those eyes communicated love and devotion, but in reality they’d simply been playing her.
Expecting the familiar ache of betrayal, Sophie was surprised to find this recurring vision abruptly interrupted by a new image instead. Flashes of clear, innocent eyes flooded her brain, their color a lighter, warmer blue. These eyes had stolen her breath and left her wanting more. These were the eyes she’d seen outside Officer Stone’s door.
She felt a steadying hand on her wrist, bringing her back to the present. “Sophie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring him up like that.”
Sophie gazed at her apologetic roommate and swallowed guiltily. Kirsten would be thoroughly disappointed to learn Sophie was already obsessing over yet another criminal. The two men actually looked somewhat alike, now that she thought about it. Maybe she really did need help!
“So, listen to this. My damn PO is forcing me to attend therapy as a condition of my parole.”
Kirsten quietly continued lunch preparations, refusing to empathize with the indignant anger in Sophie’s voice. What had happened to Sophie was every psychologist’s nightmare, and it scared Kirsten immensely. She desperately wanted her friend to move on and heal.
“And why is therapy such a bad idea?”
“It’s not … it’s …” Sophie sighed in frustration. “I know I need to talk about it. I just don’t want to, you know?”
“Absolutely.” Kirsten often felt that way about her dissertation.
“Officer Stone gave me a list of therapists. Will you maybe, um, help me find a good one?”
Kirsten smiled encouragingly. “Of course. If you want, I can ask my supervisor what she thinks of the people on the list. She knows a lot of therapists in Chicago.”
“Okay.” Sophie joined Kirsten at the little round table in the nook next to the kitchen. She began twirling pasta on her fork.